He Remembers
by versifico
Summary: The progression of a breakdown. Rory deals with postpartum depression. PDLD, in the same universe as Announcements and One Giant Step Forward. Pretty dark.


Title: He Remembers

Author: Elizabeth

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Rating: T for mature subject matter

Warning: This chapter deals with more mature subject matter including post partum depression and attempted suicide. Nothing is too graphic, but it might be a little deep for some readers. Be warned.

Author's note: This chapter was pretty difficult to write for me. Most of it came from my own experience with PPD. When I started this series I knew that I didn't want everything to be fluffy and happy; nobody's life is like that. Anyways, I hope you enjoy and _please, please _review! My heart is in this piece; I'd really like to know what everyone thinks. I am also still trying to come up with a name for the series. Suggestions are welcome.

Special thanks to my new beta, Lynn, who did an awesome job! The ending of this story is entirely credited to her. Thanks!

Eva is two weeks old when he notices the change in Rory.

He remembers their first date.

He remembers what she wore (a blue dress) and how her hair smelled (like oranges) and her smile when she'd opened the door to him (perfect).

He remembers holding her hand and asking himself what was wrong with him for dating Logan's girl, and he remembers knowing that nothing on earth (not even a life-long friendship) could rescue him from the hole he'd dug for himself (already so deep).

He remembers eating and not tasting a thing, and he remembers asking her to dance in the restaurant with piped-in music and no dance floor. He remembers her blush, fine and soft and gorgeous, as she'd swayed with him in the middle of the crowded dining room.

He remembers drinking wine with her in his bedroom and watching her recline against his bed, her eyes sleepy and her smile lingering. He remembers wanting her in the darkest, easiest, _hardest _way he'd ever wanted anyone.

He remembers her hand on his neck as she pulled him down to her, and the sound (and feel) of her whisper as she reassured him that yes, she wanted this and yes, it was okay and yes, please, just kiss her already.

He remembers waking up and looking at her face in the pre-dawn light and noticing the freckles on the bridge of her nose and thinking that he never, ever wanted anyone else to lie closely enough to her to notice those freckles too.

He remembers falling in love.

By the time it registers, she's been sleeping past noon for five days and he's almost certain that she hasn't eaten for just as long. He'd like to chalk it up to Eva's long nights and her on-and-off sleeping habits. But, for the past week, he's been the one waking up with Eva and pacing up and down the long hallways. He's been the one bundling her tightly into receiving blankets and singing her lullabies. He's been the one making the bottles because Rory decided, on the day that Eva turned one week old, that she wasn't going to nurse her anymore.

By the time he realizes that something is off, she has stopped holding Eva altogether. She sits in the oversized chair from their loft that now resides in the great room with the curtains drawn. She divides her time between watching the TV, sound muted, and watching Eva who sleeps or fidgets or fusses in the bassinet he's installed in the same room.

He has taken off a month from work to help with Eva, and he tells himself that he just needs to give her a few more weeks. He tells himself that, when he goes back to work, she will be fine and everything will be normal.

He remembers that, the day after she'd told him she was pregnant, they'd gone shopping for furniture for the nursery. She'd fallen in love with a beautiful pine crib with graceful, curving sides. He remembers teasing her that, if the baby was a boy, they were returning the crib because it was just too girly. He remembers her face when she'd reassured him that she was having a girl; she knew this because the sheer strength of her will would make it so.

He remembers the hours she'd spent picking out paint, border, light fixtures, upholstery. He remembers how she'd taken off an entire day to supervise the painters when they'd come. He remembers that she cried when she'd finally finished the room and had stood in the doorway, her arm wrapped around his waist as they stared inside together.

Since the day they brought Eva home, she has not been inside the nursery. When they'd first come home Rory had been prone to falling asleep with Eva in her arms while sitting in the overstuffed chair, the baby's tiny body nestled against her chest. He has countless pictures of them lying like this, Eva's tiny fists balled up and crunched tightly between their bodies.

When he looks at her now he notices that her eyes are glazed over with heavy, dark circles beneath them. Her hair is limp and unwashed and her clothes are dirty. She goes to sleep early and wakes up late but she still seems to completely lack the will to get out of bed, take a shower, read a book, hold her baby, kiss her fiancé.

When he calls Lorelai, three weeks and three days since they brought her home, he almost can't find his voice to tell her what's happening; when she answers the phone he clutches it against his ear, breathing hard, listening to her questioning 'Hellos'.

"You should probably come," he says, a half-whisper, and she hangs up without asking any more questions.

He remembers the morning sickness.

He remembers that she was sick for three whole months, sick in a way that seemed to redefine the word. She'd kept a trash can, a pack of crackers, and a bottle by the bed the entire time.

He remembers holding her hair until she'd pushed him away impatiently and told him that she'd tie it back instead; she'd told him that he couldn't stand there, holding it for her, for nine months. He remembers finding her crying in the bathroom floor too many times to count, and the helpless way that it made him feel.

He remembers watching her lose weight because she couldn't keep down anything more substantial than those damn crackers and water. He'd bought pregnancy books secretly and scoured them while she slept fitfully, trying to reassure his nagging doubts that this just wasn't normal.

He remembers the first day she'd been able to eat and keep down an entire meal; he remembers the radiance of her smile, her sureness that the worst of it was over. And it had been.

He remembers looking at the sonogram and the doctor's voice as she'd told the two of them that they were having a little girl. He remembers Rory's quiet voice when she'd whispered in his ear, walking out the door, that she wanted to name her Eva.

He remembers how she'd looked nine months pregnant, stretched out on their bed with a well-loved copy of an old book, the text propped up on her belly that had never gotten that big but that had still looked huge on her petite frame. He remembers taking pictures of her a million times during the day; he remembers her insistence that he not take any shots of her naked, although he'd somehow managed to get a few anyway.

He remembers how he'd felt when she'd told him that she was in labor in her quiet, confident way. They'd been at Whole Foods buying food for dinner, and she'd been examining a honeydew melon. She hadn't even raised her eyes to him when she'd told him. He remembers dropping the peach he'd been holding.

He remembers thinking that this was it; he was going to be a dad.

Lorelai arrives late at night, the same night that he calls her, with a suitcase in her hand.

"I thought you might need me to stay for a little while," she explains quietly, and comes inside without being invited.

"What about Luke and Richard?" he asks, because he knows he can't disagree with her statement.

"Luke understands. He's taking Richard camping while I'm gone, so he doesn't get confused. He thinks they're having a boys-only adventure."

Finn only nods his understanding and leads her towards the guest room closest to his and Rory's bedroom. It's the nicest one in the house, which he knows she'll appreciate.

"Where is she now?"

"Sleeping."

"What about Eva?"

"She's asleep too, in her crib."

"Does she sleep through the night?"

He shakes his head and she makes a little sound, obviously remembering Rory's early childhood.

"Rory never did either. Not until she was around a year old."

He doesn't respond; instead he opens the door to the room for her and stands aside, motioning for her to go in.

"You look tired, Finn," she says to him, and squeezes his arm as she walks past him. "What's going on?"

He waits as she puts her suitcase down and then sits down on the bed beside it, folding her hands in her lap. He recognizes this stance; he knows that she is waiting for bad news. If only he knew how to properly articulate this.

"I don't…she's not herself. She hasn't been since Eva was born."

"How do you mean?"

"She barely speaks to me. She won't even hold Eva. She sleeps half of the day, and when she's not sleeping she's sitting in her chair and watching television. She hasn't been out. She won't let anyone visit her. I don't know what to say to her, or how to help her."

"This isn't your fault. You've been there for her, you've been a good dad."

"I don't feel like it."

"I'm here to help you now. Why don't you go lie down, get some sleep? I'll take care of Eva when she wakes up."

He doesn't have the energy to ask her if she's sure, so he simply offers her a small smile and turns to go to their room.

He remembers the night their daughter is born; he remembers every detail.

He remembers how easy her labor had seemed, remembers the joking comments they'd both made to that effect. Four hours at home, one at the hospital, and Eva Elizabeth had been brought into the world with a half-grimace/half-smile on her red, wrinkly little face.

He remembers holding his new baby and smiling down at her, thinking that he was so glad that she was here and that the drama of birth was over. Then Eva had been lifted from his arms and a nurse had informed him, quietly and calmly, that Rory was experiencing unexpected complications. She was losing too much blood; something had been injured inside of her that needed to be fixed. She'd reassured him that he could hold the baby and carry her to the newborn nursery. He'd wanted so much to place their new daughter into Rory's arms, but when he'd looked at her she'd been pale, her eyes heavy lidded, hands heavy on the sheets by her side.

He remembers the flutter of panic in his chest, the nervous tightening of his stomach muscles. He remembers looking at his new daughter and hoping, hoping, hoping that the beginning of her life wouldn't mean the end of Rory's. He remembers thinking that he'd never be able to look at Eva if she had taken away the love of his life.

He remembers asking the nurse to page Lorelai. For the moment she could be responsible for baby Eva; all he could think of was Rory, all he could see was how pale and lifeless she looked. He remembers sitting beside her bed, holding her hand and whispering to her _stay, stay, stay with me. _

He doesn't want to remember (but he does) the dark stain of the sheets beneath her body or the hushed, frenzied voices of the nurses as they rushed in their slow, quiet manner around her room. He doesn't want to remember the metallic smell of blood hanging in the air or the heavy press of his fear.

He remembers the nurse handing him a consent form, remembers the disjointed sound of her voice as she'd informed him that Rory needed a blood transfusion and that he needed to sign and please, sign quickly because he shouldn't worry but it is fairly urgent. He remembers signing his name, hand still shaking, and dropping the pen to the floor but not thinking to pick it up.

He remembers watching, feeling utterly paralyzed and lost, as the almost-black blood filtered through the IV tube and into her body. He remembers praying, which he'd never done before and hasn't done since, that it would be enough to keep her there with him.

He remembers the moment when she finally opened her eyes, her sleepy smile, the tug of her fingers on his that pulled him from a reluctant half-sleep.

He remembers that she asked about Eva but that her voice sounded strange and hollow and he remembers that he told himself that it was just because she was so tired and weak. He remembers being so grateful that she was alive that nothing else had mattered.

The next Monday he wakes at 5 a.m., pressing the heels of his hands hard against his eyes because it hurts so damn much just to open them. Even with Lorelai's help he feels like he's the walking dead. He wants nothing more than to lie here for days and do nothing but sleep and eat.

Rory is still asleep beside him and he sighs as he scoots closer to her, sliding an arm cautiously over her body. Her breathing is deep and even; her face looks peaceful. He feels the familiar tightness in his stomach release momentarily as he looks at her, recognizing the woman that he fell in love with for the first time in weeks.

She shifts beside him, stretching her legs, and turns her face up before she opens her eyes.

"Morning, love," he whispers, not wanting to startle her with his nearness.

"Morning, Finn," she murmurs sleepily, and he is utterly surprised to see her smile at him.

"How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good, actually. You going back to work today?"

"Yeah. I should really get up and get showered."

"Mmmm. Just wait a few more minutes."

She turns her body until she's facing him completely.

"I've missed you," she says, whispering now, and closes the space between them until her lips brush against his softly.

He almost groans at the contact and he resists the need to grab her hair and force her against him. It's been over a month since he's even really _touched _her and he feels like he might go crazy if he doesn't now.

But he doesn't have to force her because she's the one that's kissing him, tentatively, almost as if they haven't been doing this for years. He lets his hand slide against her back and under her t-shirt that has ridden up.

"I love you, Rory," he says, his voice almost breaking.

She doesn't respond but he barely notices because she's moved down, down, until she's pulling down his pajama pants and throwing them across the room.

He gets lost in her willingly, and for that moment he lets reality slide away.

He remembers opening the door to their home the day they'd come home with Eva; he remembers the silence and the slightly stale air. Rory had been holding her in her arms, he'd been carrying her bag from the hospital and Eva's infant carrier.

He remembers how she'd gone straight to her favorite chair, sinking down into its depths, Eva still in her arms. Eva had opened her eyes then, still blurry with sleep, and immediately begun to wail.

He remembers telling Rory that he thought she was hungry. He remembers especially well her face when she'd turned to look at him, bewildered and afraid and tired. Then she'd stood up, handed Eva to him, and padded down the hallway.

He remembers the quiet sound of the door shutting behind her, and how hurt he'd felt. He remembers that, just for that moment, it had to be pushed away so that he could take care of Eva, who was still crying.

He hadn't realized that this simple act of forgetting would become a familiar habit.

When he comes home the house is eerily silent and it reminds him of that day. He's full of hope after the events of the morning; he wants so badly to believe that Rory has miraculously returned to her normal self, and that they will move on and put the entire thing behind them.

He calls out her name first, then Lorelai's as he heads toward their room. The door is open the bed is unmade. He tries the guest room next but finds it empty as well. He feels nervous and scared as he heads toward the kitchen to check for a message, any message, to tell him where his wife and daughter are.

When he sees the small white piece of paper on the breakfast table he feels for a moment as if he will be sick on the kitchen floor. He knows, without looking, that the news is bad. When he does look at the paper he feels as if someone had stolen his life out from under him when he wasn't looking.

_Finn—At the hospital with Rory. Eva with parents. Lorelai._

He remembers one night during their first week at home. He remembers thinking that Rory was acting strangely, and he remembers making excuses for the behavior in his head.

_She's tired. She's overwhelmed. She just needs a few days to get used to being a mom._

He remembers waking in the middle of the night to Eva's furious screaming, already a familiar occurrence. He'd been surprised to find the space beside him empty. He'd been the one waking up with Eva since they'd come home.

He remembers pulling himself from the bed and slipping on the robe that he kept on the back of the bedroom door. He remembers walking down the hallway, past the door that opened into Eva's empty nursery, and into the great room. Rory was standing next to the bassinet and he could see Eva's little hands, flailing wildly in the air. Her screams were enormous, filling the entire house.

He remembers Rory's face as she stared down at their daughter, remembers the anger and frustration that he'd barely recognized. He remembers how she'd been oblivious to his presence, hovering on the edge of the room, watching silently.

He remembers how she'd placed her hand over Eva's little face; he remembers how violently she'd been shaking. She'd held her hand there for only a moment, the room suddenly silent, before she pulled it away again. She'd begun to cry then, her shoulders shaking violently, and had turned away from the still-screaming baby.

He remembers walking into the room then, going straight to Eva, picking her up and patting her back lightly as he bounced on the balls of his feet. He'd been unable to tear his gaze away from Rory, who was still looking away from the both of them. Eva had quieted instantly at her dad's touch.

He remembers touching Rory on the shoulder, unsure of what he wanted from her. He'd wanted to be angry at what he'd seen, but all he'd felt was uncertainty and fear.

"She wouldn't stop crying," Rory had whispered.

He'd let it go at that.

He thinks about that night when he walks into the hospital room, wincing when his shoe squeaks against the freshly mopped floor, ruining his attempt at a silent entry. His view of the room is blocked at first by a wall to his right and he takes this moment of anonymity to collect himself. He squeezes his hands into fists at his sides and his eyes equally tight, taking a deep breath that he hopes will stabilize him.

"Finn?"

The voice is Lorelai's, and she sounds tired and distant. He knows that he has to go into the room and look at her, but he's so afraid of what he'll find. He knows that, once he sees her, it will be real.

"I'm here."

His feet propel him forward and he looks directly at Lorelai, unwilling to drop his eyes to the hospital bed just yet. Her dark hair is a mess and she is hunched forward, her usually perfect posture missing. She is clutching one of Rory's pale hands, and he realizes that when he sees it he is searching for a bandage, a sign of trauma. He next wonders why his first thought was to look for signs of suicide.

How did he let it get this far?

"She's okay," Lorelai tells him immediately, but the words that are meant to be reassuring sound empty and they leave him with no solace.

"Thank you for letting me know it was her and not Eva. In your note," he mumbles, the first thing that comes to his mind.

"I knew you'd be worried. She's with my parents. They'll keep her as long as you need them to."

He knows that he should say something, how thoughtful it is of Richard and Emily, but he can't form the words. He's finally found the courage to look at Rory and when he does it's almost as if nothing has happened. She's sleeping peacefully on the bed, her free hand resting at her side. She's pale, but not paler than usual, and her face is smooth.

"What happened?"

He's not looking at Lorelai and so he doesn't see her close her eyes; he doesn't see when she shudders a little, fearful of the words before they leave her mouth. She hasn't said them yet, not even to her parents, but she's listened to them (and their ramifications) since she brought Rory to the ER.

"She swallowed a bottle of painkillers. The ones they sent home with her from the hospital."

But the words don't hurt as much as they should; the words are ones that he halfway expects, and they bump against the numbness inside of him.

"You found her in time?"

"She was taking a bath. She'd been in for…thirty minutes? Forty-five? When I decided to check on her. She's lucky she didn't drown." Her voice breaks on the last word and she buries her face in the blanket beside Rory's body, but he knows that she's not crying. Her shoulders are still; he knows Lorelai, he knows that she won't break. Not yet.

"It's not your fault, Lorelai. It's mine. I've been there, I've watched her. I knew something was wrong. I could've gotten her help."

"I've been there too, Finn! She's my child—I should've seen it. I was there with her tonight, and I knew that she was acting strangely. But I let her go into the bathroom alone, I left her for so long. I'm just so glad she's still alive."

He wants to cross the room and put his hand on her shoulder; he wants to comfort her. He wants a drink. He wants to hold Eva. He wants Rory to open her eyes and smile at him and tell him that she feels good again.

"What happens now?"

He wants Lorelai to have the answers.

"I guess we talk to the doctors. They'll know what's best for her."

Not a Lorelai-like answer, he knows, but he also knows that they are both floundering in the same murky water. They are both so terrified of losing Rory; they are both terrified that they've already lost her.

"Does she love her, Lorelai?"

He knows that he shouldn't have asked; he knows that Rory could hear him, but he just can't stop himself because he feels like his future rests on the answer.

"Finn…it's hard to explain, but the love that a mother feels for her child is like nothing else. When I first had Rory, I was completely alone. I had given up so much just to have her, and there was nobody for me to talk to. I didn't know what I was doing. I would wonder sometimes if I really loved her, or if I was just going through the motions, taking care of her. But over time I came to realize that love doesn't always fit someone else's definitions. When Rory smiled at me sometimes…I would forget to breathe, and I would have to sit down for a few minutes and just _look _at her. The emotion just overwhelmed me at those times. That was love, Finn. That was my love for Rory. Even though Rory can't take care of Eva right now, she loves her. I know it. Just give her time. She'll get better."

"I know. I know. She'll get better."

The words sound hollow even to him.

One week later he and Rory return home.

Eva is still with her grandparents, because he knows (and she acknowledges, silently) that it's best for them to have a few more days alone.

Lorelai has returned home to Luke and Richard, promising that if they need her they can call anytime. He knows that she doesn't want to leave, he sees it clearly on her face, but he knows as well as she does that he needs time with Rory.

The house is too quiet and he sets her bag down and crosses the room to turn on the television before the silence devours them both. She is standing just inside the doorway, her hands twisting nervously in front of her, surveying the room. Everything is new, now, after the horrible things that have happened; he feels her need to take stock of the situation and find somewhere to _begin. _

"Come on," he says too loudly, "let's go lie down for a while."

She only nods and follows him, childlike, down the hallway and into their bedroom. He sees her resolution not to look inside the nursery; the door is open and the sheets on the crib are slightly rumpled still. The sight of it, barely glimpsed in his peripheral, is enough to make him want to cry.

He undresses while she lies down in the bed, fully clothed, and pulls the heavy comforter over her body. She's facing the window, unmoving, her eyes closed lightly. When he slides in beside her he scoots himself close to her until he's spooned against her. He buries his face against her neck, into her hair, which she washed before they came home from the hospital. She still smells like oranges.

"Finn," she whispers.

"Yeah?"

"Sometimes when I look at Eva…I can't breathe."

He blinks, hard, and holds her tighter. He understands what she's telling him and the impact of it is dizzying and relieving and wonderful. He thinks that she is going to be alright.

He remembers the desperate clutch of her hand in the cramped office, the slick slide of her sweaty palms.

"We don't really know the causes of post partum depression yet. A lot of women get what's known as the Baby Blues after birth, which is a really mild form of depression that goes away without treatment. And in some women, the depression progresses until medication and therapy is necessary. From what you've told me about Eva's birth, you had a pretty difficult time immediately afterwards. Medical trauma and dissatisfaction with the birth experience can commonly cause depression in new mothers. Have you been having negative thoughts toward Eva?"

He remembers the look on Rory's face, her glance that had darted from the doctor, to him, to the bookshelf on the opposite side of the room. He remembers the reluctant nod of her head and the glaze of tears on her eyes.

"You don't have to be ashamed, Mrs. Morgan. Hostile thoughts towards family, especially the new baby, are common with this illness. It doesn't mean that you don't love your child or your husband. It just means that you're going through a rough time and you need a strong support system. Give yourself time; don't expect to feel better overnight. I'm going to send you home with a prescription that you'll take every day, and I want you to come in for a session once a week. Okay?"

He remembers another nod, his confused 'thank you'. He remembers clutching onto the words of the female doctor, holding them against them like a life raft.

On Eva's 3 month birthday Rory rises at 6 a.m. and drinks one cup of coffee, strong and black, before rinsing her mug and putting it away. Her doctor has warned her that she should avoid excessive caffeine intake, as it might interfere with her medication.

She showers quickly and dresses before returning to their bedroom, pausing beside the four-poster to take in the still-sleeping pair. Eva is atop Finn, who is lying on his back, one arm over Eva's tiny legs and the other over his eyes. Eva is facing her, her eyelashes fluttering slightly, her small mouth puckered as if in a kiss.

It still hurts to look at her sometimes, a hard and desperate hurt that clutches at her chest, but it has lessened with time and care. Most of the time, though, it stills her inside to watch her daughter, to hold her. She can smell her hair, stroke her cheek, cuddle her against her chest, and feel peaceful and still and full. She knows that this feeling is love for her daughter; she knows that she still has a long way to go.

She is a mother, and for one of the first times in her life she is far from perfect, but she is _trying _with everything inside of her and it feels good to look back and see where she's come from. She knows that in 18 years, when Eva is leaving her to go to college, she will barely remember this dark time. She knows that she will be a good mother to Eva. She knows that she will be fine.

It is enough.


End file.
